Weapons ready.
Scanning.
Then—
Saint.
For a moment my brain refuses to believe it.
He’s pale.
Bruised.
Moving stiffly like every step hurts.
But he’s walking.
Alive.
My knees give out.
The world tilts and I barely register moving.
One second I’m standing in the clearing.
The next—
I’m running.
I crash into him hard enough that he stumbles back a step.
He catches me anyway.
One arm around my waist.
The other wrapping instinctively around our daughter like he’s afraid the world might steal us again if he loosens his grip.
“I’m here,” he says hoarsely. “I’ve got you.”
I bury my face against his chest and the tears finally come.
I don’t even try to stop them.
“I thought—” My voice breaks. “I thought—”
“I know,” he murmurs softly.
His hand presses against the back of my head, holding me there.
“I know.”
He leans down and presses his forehead against mine.
For a moment we just breathe.
Then he looks down.
At her.
